Phantasia
by updatepls
Summary: She lowers her eyes contemptuously to Sarah's boots where her laces touch the floor; the whole of Sarah like an oil spill amidst the ice-white lake of Rachel's apartment. Propunk/Rachel being her usual strange self.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: ****it's probably best to view this entire thing as a continued exploration of rachel's character leading on from my tags on this tumblr post ( post/86234831076/), but it is in no way essential to have read them first or anything! (you can find a link to my blog on my profile!)**

**ok so fair warning the chapter lengths are gonna jump around a bit on this story, but that means i might occasionally update with two so?**

**short first chapter here, propunk from chapter two.**

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><p>Rachel Duncan tilts her head to one side, allowing her hair to hang a few inches from her face like a curtain. She leans forward slightly into the water jets and watches as the locks grow fat with liquid, near instantly streaming from the ends and filtering away down the length of her body.<p>

Rachel is nineteen, and this is what she does in the shower; has been doing in the shower for as long as she can remember.

Slowly she moves from the scalding spray, straightening herself and allowing her now drenched hair to adhere hotly to her jaw and neck. Rachel thinks it feels positively divine.

On some level she's aware of what she's trying to achieve but she'd deny it if you asked her.

Feeling the wetness in her hair begin to lose it's warmth, Rachel re-immerses her scalp into the flow of water, coming away again only to repeat the process. The ends of short blonde waves (soaked like this, Rachel's hair is naturally curly — the same as her sisters she's never met), thick and heavy and hot with water, cling to the skin of her jawline and stick wetly at the nape of her neck, the sensitive spots behind her ears.

She hums; a low sound, produced somewhere deep in her throat. Rachel thinks it feels like a hundred open-mouthed kisses all at once.

Only she's in control.

_She_ chooses when and where they're planted, _she alone_ chooses how she's kissed; how wet, how hot, how—

Rachel feels a rogue throb of need make itself known between her legs. It makes her squirm, a single shiver breaking out over her skin. Rachel pushes a short breath out through her nose and rolls her neck, eyes unwittingly closed. And with one hand pressed against cool tile in support, breath coming hard, it dawns on Rachel all at once: what it is she actually wants; what it is she's seeking.

It feels irrevocable. Irreversible. Too big to be swallowed back down again. Nevertheless, Rachel tries to choke it back as best she can, pushing the knowledge from the front of her mind where it does not sit comfortably, and into a recess where it doesn't make her moral compass spin as if surrounded by magnets. Predictably, demanding to be acknowledged, it bounces back.

Rachel makes the water come out first cooler, and then ice cold. She stands under it fully, mouth wide, unable to breathe hardly at all from the shock of it.

The exorcism fails.

Rachel is unhelpfully reminded of the first time she had kissed a girl, how it'd thrilled her; of how she had been forced to excuse herself to promptly vomit in the ladies' room, consumed with dread at her sudden understanding.

Her hand wanders back to the temperature gage, turning it to make the jets deliciously warm against her freshly cold skin. A dull feeling of resignation seats itself in Rachel's belly; wanting to kiss girls never went away, chances are this wouldn't either.

Rachel saturates her hair until it will hold no more water.

She kisses herself again.


	2. Chapter 2

After years of being forcibly ushered into a world of ethical horrors, Rachel no longer cares for ethics. She discovers that the world is putty beneath her silver fingertips when she's not tied down by the need to be reconcilable against popular morality, and quickly, she adopts ruthlessness as second nature.

_Heavy-handed,_ Aldous had called her. He forgets he was the one who had taught her how to be so.

Rachel breathes out sharply in a poor imitation of laughter at the thought, the irony.

Things do not phase Rachel anymore, things just are, and what she wants, is just what she wants. Now, Rachel's moral compass does not move at all.

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><p>Rachel Duncan is twenty-eight and she stands in front of her bathroom mirror, almost languorously applying her signature shade of red lipstick.<p>

Absently running a hand down the edge of the glass, Rachel admires her own reflection. _Like Narcissus' pool,_ she thinks coolly, lightly amused as opposed to distressed this time. She lets the notion float around her mind; does not attempt to choke it back down.

Pushing the lipstick cap back on, she replaces each article of cosmetic to it's rightful draw or cupboard.

Her finished work is exquisite. Pristine. Practiced. Artful. Crisp with quality and skill — like everything Rachel's ever done, been, worn, really.

_Positively divine._

She takes a slow breath, eyes never leaving her form.

Leaning in closer to inspect her make-up, Rachel ensures her lips are coated perfectly.

She does not blot.

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><p>Sarah Manning stands in scruffy black jeans with holes at the knees (holes everywhere really), her hair equally unkempt. And, emerging from the bathroom, Rachel lowers her eyes contemptuously to Sarah's boots where her laces touch the floor; the whole of Sarah like an oil spill amidst the ice-white lake of Rachel's apartment.<p>

"Fuck _me_ is this place straight out of Cold Bitch Digest," had been Sarah's first words when they'd entered earlier that evening.

(Getting Sarah to come willingly hadn't been the challenge; it wasn't Rachel's ability but rather her patience that had been tested.

Through years of proven efficacy, Rachel had become more than accustomed to a simple threat-and-result dynamic when it comes to getting what she wants, no desire whatsoever to be liked. She is feared... which is practically the same thing, isn't it? But for this, by nature, it is paramount; being liked that is.

And it's almost admirable how tirelessly Rachel had worked at it; worked at Sarah's innermost yearning for a true blood tie, worked at Sarah's need to trust _someone_, and curiously Rachel noted, worked at a freak patch of patriotism Sarah held within her. At the beginning their interactions had consisted merely of Sarah shouting down the phone at her for fifteen seconds, _end of interaction._ But slowly shouting had turned to mocking; mocking to ambivalence; ambivalence to teasing rooted in affection for her clone sister; her British counterpart; her pristine equal and opposite.

Thus, painstakingly, Rachel had honed a pure pearl of trust inside Sarah, until it was smooth and rich and flawless.

Until it was fit for purpose.)

Rachel waves her hand vaguely in front of Sarah's form. "Off," she commands evenly, not even looking; eyes trained instead on the wine glass she brings to her painted mouth.

"Bit eager, aren't we, eh?" Sarah remarks cockily, a smirk breaking out across her lips. Rachel says nothing.

There is uncertainty in Sarah's eyes, but she obliges, removing garment after garment in the pin-drop silence of Rachel's top-floor flat. She smiles lopsidedly and it does not reach her eyes, "Well this is awkward..."

Rachel, however, knows no such emotion.

Sarah stands naked, a stark contrast to the other woman's fully clothed body — trousers, heels, shirt, the lot.

Rachel eyes her somewhat causally, wine glass in hand; an expression of apparent disinterest on her face, accompanied by a faint something-else Sarah cannot place.

"Right," Rachel says, perhaps too loudly, her voice puncturing the air for the first time in minutes. She turns her attention to the nearby table where a neatly folded stack of clothes lie, and plucks a blonde hairband from where it rests on top. Rachel forgoes implementing the clothing entirely. _Early days,_ she reasons with herself.

Sarah's eyes have never left her, and now she meets them with a measure of heat and darkness, indiscernible in origin. Unhurriedly, Rachel moves around Sarah, heels clicking seductively on the hard floor; both Sarah and Rachel are successfully further seduced by it. Sarah does not like Rachel behind her, it makes her feel vulnerable, and a previous distrust flares up in her gut. However, she remains perfectly still.

Bringing silver-tipped fingers to Sarah's mane of hair, Rachel gathers it in deft hands, tying the tangled locks tightly behind Sarah's head; she does not want to see brunette waves around her shoulders when they kiss.

"Ow, bloody hell, Rachel! What are you even doing?!" Sarah jerks her head away from the other woman's touch, making a show of being hurt by Rachel's unceremonious ministrations.

_It will not do,_ Rachel thinks. But again, she is silent.

Instead, Rachel brushes a surprisingly warm hand over Sarah's back, causing a shiver to ripple across her skin. Leaning in, Rachel places a full kiss, painfully slow and loaded with promise, against Sarah's newly exposed neck; the ends of short blonde locks tickle Sarah's shoulder and another vibration runs through her.

Rachel raises an eyebrow a hair's width in understanding behind the shield of Sarah's body.

_Better._

Purposefully, she moves to stand directly in front of Sarah, who is looking at her with anticipation, despite it being apparent that she is completely unable to predict Rachel's next move, and she knows it. Before her, Rachel is motionless, studying Sarah like a predator might after wounding it's prey, but choosing not to kill it just _yet._

Sarah nervously attempts at filling the silence but is cut off.

"Shut up," Rachel says, not entirely unkindly. Sarah frowns defensively at the woman in front of her, lips parted.

"Close your mouth."

She waits a beat before begrudgingly obeying Rachel, and settles for pursing her lips in a display of indignation. In response, Rachel offers one of her enigmatic smiles, small and tight and thoroughly uninterpretable.

Rachel steps out of her heels deliberately, bringing her eyes and mouth perfectly level with Sarah's, and without warning, Rachel holds her steady with a hand to either shoulder and kisses Sarah firmly on the mouth, lips closed. There's little ardour in it but it serves it's purpose remarkably well. Rachel repeats the action twice more until she's satisfied; the ritual almost comical.

Sarah's mouth is a vision to her: blood red with lipstick, slightly open, and truly _identical_ to her own.

Rachel can hardly contain herself at the sight and she breathes heavily, silver-white nails digging into the back of Sarah's shoulders where she still holds her, eyes black like velvet. Frankly, Sarah is as unsettled by it all as she is turned on.

And then, Rachel is all over her; mouth hot against her own, arms flung possessively around her neck in a romance-less fashion. They are a good match, though, and quickly Sarah kisses back with just as much ferocity.

Rachel pushes her tongue between painted lips and it is everything she has wanted since she was nineteen years old.

Tugging at the hem of the other woman's shirt, Sarah is taken aback when she isn't swatted away. She expects Rachel to back up and do it herself, preferring to be in control — but instead she just raises her arms and permits Sarah to pull the sheer garment roughly over her head. Her eyes remain closed throughout and as soon as the material hits the floor her mouth is back at Sarah's, extraordinarily hungry.

Rachel walks Sarah forcefully backwards towards the couch, pushing her down by the shoulders and straddling her hips, causing Sarah to draw in her breath at the pressure. Beneath her, Sarah is a mess, and she watches Rachel eagerly as she pushes her hair behind her ears before ducking to take one of Sarah's nipples in her mouth.

With unusual grace, Sarah reaches a hand behind her own head and frees her dark hair in one fluid motion, letting it flow around her shoulders in tangles and waves once again. To her confusion, Rachel recoils, livid.

"_No!_" she practically spits, clipped accent apparently unaffected by her sudden anger. Through gritted teeth, she adds, "Put it up."

Sarah ties her hair back again obediently, too aroused to question Rachel's tone, but her work is sloppy and rushed, tendrils escaping the loose ponytail within minutes. And before Rachel knows it there's a soft brown halo surrounding Sarah's head where it rests against the cream sofa cushion. It doesn't help that most of the lipstick on Sarah's mouth has either been smudged or rubbed off completely.

Rachel forces a sharp breath through her nose, frustration barely contained. Fucking Sarah like this is not enough.

With tight lips she looks down at the other woman's flushed face, the mirror image of her own.

_But for now, it will do._

Rachel swills the words around in her brain; compromise a foreign notion there.

_For now._

With little warning, Rachel pushes two fingers deep inside Sarah.

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><p><strong>AN: ****set in canada, written in british english I KNOW OKAY BUt am hoping to get away with it since both sarah? and rachel? are british? idek too late now**

**(i tried writing using american spellings/words but it distracted me from writing the plot etc too much OKAY i'm sorry)**


	3. Chapter 3

Cambridge, brown curls of her own, two parents, and a Shetland pony no less. Rachel Duncan is as happy as any other eight year old girl in her class.

She stands at the top of the staircase in their semi-detached home, Susan and Ethan Duncan at the bottom, looking up adoringly.

Shyly but proudly Rachel does a single twirl, showcasing the outfit Mum had helped her pick out for the last day of term: home-clothes day, the most dreaded—or highly anticipated—day of the academic year, depending upon the wealth of your family.

And Rachel Duncan's is beyond wealthy.

She does a little curtsey, just like Ethan's mother had taught her how, to finish off; both parents clapping enthusiastically, smiling up at her.

"Rachel, darling, you look positively divine!" Her mother declares.

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><p><strong>AN: ****this is comparably so short it's stupid but it just happened i can't explain. sarah's back next chapter tho**

**also just to save myself the embarrassment, "home-clothes day" or "non-uniform day" is a real thing in schools in the UK i promise i didn't make it up lol**


	4. Chapter 4

Sarah reaches idly for the handle of Rachel's fridge, presumably to get another beer, but before she can, Rachel has grabbed her firmly by the elbow. Sarah quickly spins to face her, antagonistic and questioning as is her way—but her scowl immediately melts into a smirk when she understands Rachel is about to kiss her.

This evening, Rachel knows, she cannot be cold—cannot be her usual aloof—if she wants Sarah to acquiesce. Or, as Sarah would probably prefer to believe, indulge her.

Rachel moves back a mere inch from Sarah's lips, "I'll do it," she murmurs, and Sarah can feel the warmth of the other woman's breath on her mouth. Rachel reaches behind Sarah blindly, what would be precariously if it were anyone else, and opens the refrigerator herself. Locking eyes with Sarah, she brings the desired bottle into the space between their bodies, daring Sarah to take it from her. Sarah goes to, only to grasp thin air as Rachel moves it from her reach, expression unchanging.

"Oi," Sarah frowns incredulously at Rachel—unexpectedly juvenile—and stares challengingly into the pair of hazel eyes opposite her own; identical in both colour and expression. They stay like that for an elongated moment—charged with the silent power play being conducted between them—both women perfectly still and not a foot apart.

Suddenly, Rachel let's out a sort of huff of a laugh and kisses Sarah chastely on the lips, pushing the cold bottle against Sarah's stomach and letting go completely, forcing her to grab onto it near instantly if she is to prevent it from falling to the floor and smashing. Sarah just about manages it as Rachel walks away in her stilettos.

Rachel thinks it does nicely.

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><p>Later, they occupy Rachel's cream sofa: Sarah completely naked, save the enormous bowl of Doritos resting between her crossed legs. She watches the equally enormous television on the wall opposing them with childlike absorption and chewing with her mouth open.<p>

It irks Rachel, who sits a little less nakedly in her underwear (they didn't get that far—deliberately of Rachel) next to Sarah on the sofa, but she remains silent. She has no idea what Sarah has chosen for them to watch; does not care; is too fraught with anticipation.

Rachel's left arm rests on the back of the sofa from where her fingertips easily reach Sarah's right shoulder, and in an attempt at apparently absent affection, she trails them back and forth there. She clenches her jaw with the effort of not simply demanding what she wants, as is her way; instead choosing the delicate manipulation she has managed to sustain thus far.

Slower still she runs her hand down the length of Sarah's arm until she's able to bring the other woman's hand to rest in her own lap. Sarah turns to her, a little taken aback but with a smile in her eyes. Almost inaudibly she emits a kitten-soft, "Hey," smile reaching her mouth now. Rachel valiantly tries to mirror Sarah's innocent expression, achieving a tight smirk that Sarah puts down to something along the lines of Rachel being out of her depth, but _trying_ nonetheless.

She guesses incorrectly.

With Sarah's attention safely back on the TV screen, Rachel reaches to the small table beside her end of the sofa. There, a pot of Rachel's own silver nail varnish sits, calculatedly placed hours before Sarah had even arrived at the apartment. Holding it tightly between her thighs, Rachel unscrews the cap with her right hand. She gently wipes the excess polish off the miniature brush using the bottle's rim and brings it to where Sarah's right hand still rests in Rachel's left. Expertly, she paints Sarah's most readily accessible fingernail: her thumbnail. Sarah is almost comically unaware as Rachel sits next to her in concentration, and a little in anxiety, taking her time—_but not too much time_—to transform Sarah's fingertips into ones that could pass for her very own.

It works even better than she had planned. She finishes them all without so much as a glance from Sarah, and not for a further five minutes thereafter.

Someone must have said something particularly hilarious in the movie Sarah is enraptured by because suddenly she turns to Rachel with a stupid grin on her face, all canines. Before Rachel can respond appropriately, a glint of silver catches Sarah's eye and it draws her attention to where their hands sit, entangled and motionless on Rachel's bare thigh.

Predictably: "Oh, my God, _Rachel!_"

Snatching her hand away she holds it splayed out at arm's length in front of her, fingernails gleaming; as silver as one of Rachel's teaspoons.

"What have you done to me!"

Rachel laughs, taking the meaning out of her strange act; turning it into a prank of sorts (Rachel has never pulled such a thing in her life, current situation being no exception). As intended it quells the anger in Sarah, transforming it into laughter of her own.

Rachel puts a warm hand, complete with silver-white nails of her own, on Sarah's naked leg, and still chuckling kisses her shoulder.

"What, you don't like it?"

Sarah grins, amazed, "You're so fucking sneaky!" she exclaims, the last word muffled by Rachel's mouth as she kisses her on the lips this time. Rachel's kneeling on the sofa beside her now, raising herself up so they can kiss properly.

"Let me do the other one."

It comes out offhand but Rachel's heart is thumping near painfully against her breastbone. The very real possibility that Sarah may become irrational if pressed too hard, concluding in Rachel losing this delicate moment altogether, has consumed her mind since they had first sat down together.

"Piss off!" Sarah laughs incredulously. "Not happening. Not in a million years."

Rachel's mouth is on hers again, hands either side of her face. She pushes one leg between Sarah's, effectively shoving off the bowl that had been resting there and allowing the contents to spill onto her living room floor. Sarah's never so much as seen Rachel throw a wet towel on the bed.

"Please," Rachel drawls against her neck.

Sarah gasps dramatically, causing Rachel to pull back and look at her.

And then, mock-horror, "Did Rachel _Duncan_ just say... _please_?!"

"I did," Rachel replies, evenly as ever.

"I was thinking about saying yes but now I really don't trust you!"

The playful atmosphere extends just a fleeting second further.

And then Rachel sees her window.

She doesn't care for the comment, doesn't feel rejected or slapped in the face; like everything they've built has been swept out from underneath her feet. But her face would tell you otherwise... because a lesser clone might.

Rachel stares at Sarah for a moment, frozen; apparently wounded, before extricating herself from the other woman's lap and briskly walking away.

"Rachel!... _Rachel!_"

Pause.

"I didn't mean it!"

Nothing.

"Fuck," Sarah mutters under her breath; throws a pillow at the television screen and misses.

"Uggghhhh," begrudgingly Sarah realises the fastest way she can make it okay again. And she doesn't like it.

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><p>Sarah snakes her arms around the smooth skin of Rachel's waist, only for Rachel to close her eyes and huff, thinking it realistic to keep up the fuss just a little longer. She's standing at the kitchen sink, Sarah behind her: pressing warm hands against Rachel's bare stomach and gentle kisses to her neck.<p>

"Rachel, I didn't mean it," Sarah says quietly against her skin.

Rachel opens her eyes and looks down to where Sarah's palms are flat against her abdomen. She does not expect what she finds and she lets out a strange moan; practically aggressive. Rachel feels like there's fire in her throat, or she's been pushed into a swimming pool; like the very oxygen surrounding her is no longer compatible with her lungs.

She gives away impressively little.

"It doesn't matter," she manages, breathing hard, and Rachel experiences sincerity for quite possibly the first time in her life.

Sarah has painted the remaining digits herself; every nail as silver as Rachel's own, hands perfect copies of those supporting the woman in front of her as she leans heavily on the counter. _And she's caressing Rachel's skin with them._ Drawing light patterns over her stomach and making the muscles there jump and clench.

Rachel watches overwhelmed, open-mouthed with arousal.

Sarah chuckles at Rachel's sudden responsiveness, but Rachel does not hear—instead she focuses on not coming on the spot. It is a sight better than she had ever imagined, and she had imagined it a hundred times over; the thrill of the idea enough to make Rachel whimper when she's alone. But here, this—outside the confines of fantasy—this is exaltation.

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><p><strong>AN: ****AND THERE'S NOTHING HOLY ABOUT IT AHA IGNORE ME**

**this just gets weirder i know i can't help it. blame the show - canon rachel would totally sleep with a clone for narcissistic purposes IM CERTAIN OF IT**

**also, this is my first ever piece of fanfic so any and all comments are very welcome! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: im soooooo sorry for the massive wait on this one, basically i had no clue where this was going or what was gonna happen and then waddya know 6am, been up all night already and suddenly this (AND the next chapter which is muuuch longer and i will post very soon!) happens... what can i say, I'M NOT IN CONTROL OF THE MUSE.**

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><p>To be seen by another is to be solidified, verified; <em>realised<em>. This, Rachel Duncan knows.

The eyes of her subordinates dart from her gaze, and she knows that she is fearsome. Aldous' eyes beg silently for a simpler way, a kinder method, and Rachel knows without doubt that she is a force to be reckoned with. The eyes of the women she fucks devour her without a single touch, and she knows she has been the downfall of many before them. The eyes of strangers stare back into hers and Rachel knows that she is real. Everything about her commands to know it; her heels say it, her lipstick shows it, the cut of her hair warrants it, the danger in her presence necessitates it.

Rachel Duncan is real, _and you will know it so that I can know it too._

_Sarah_ they do not see though, do not know how their legs entangle, how Sarah's hand encompasses Rachel's throat, or how Rachel throws Sarah's skull against the wall, parts her lips with already tainted fingers and lets their tongues slide hotly over each other.

They do not see that Rachel has herself, that herself has Rachel.

Sarah had made it tangible with her physicality, had left burning prints on Rachel's stomach the first time she had touched her with silver-tipped fingers. But now sometimes Rachel isn't sure if it's her double's hand or her own that is running down the length of her arm, tugging at her hair, pushing her knees apart. She needs to know. She needs them to know, needs them to see. Needs it to be real again.

Losing after having is harder than never having at all, and Rachel has been spoilt rotten; in Rachel's presence so often, Sarah's words are even beginning to come out more polished, her sentences strung up correctly, and from time to time it is Rachel's own voice that she hears when Sarah breathes, 'lie down', 'sit up', 'fuck me', 'open your legs', in her ear.

She wants to hear it every time.

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><p><strong>AN: how's ray ray gon' make that happen I wonder mmmmmmm ha HA**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: ****ok so i said this chapter would be really long but it turns out actually chapter seven is going to be the really long one which i am also posting now so essentially this is a useless foreword bye**

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><p>One weekend, otherwise unremarkable but for the late-October fog, Rachel takes Sarah to London.<p>

_Back to London,_ Rachel thinks lightly, sipping her tea. _A place where Sarah can let her guard down, and where any collateral damage won't be quite so damaging._ Of course she could pick anywhere, could pick New York or Ottawa, could pick a town ten miles down the road for all it mattered—just as long as it's not Toronto. But why not pick London? She can afford it, she is permitted to take time away from DYAD whenever she pleases, and—she reasons—it might just evoke a certain something in Sarah; something open, something softer, something more _malleable_.

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><p>"Wait, just lemme get this straight. You wanna to go to <em>England...<em> for the _weekend._"

Rachel looks to the right and then back to Sarah, who is leaning sloppily over her kitchen island, bourbon in hand. "Yes," she answers simply.

Sarah scoffs and throws back the last of her liquor, slamming the glass down on the marbled counter jarringly, "Well, you're paying."

"Obviously."

They both know Sarah could never pay for a ticket it on her own.

"Oh, piss off," Sarah pours herself another drink but before she can bring it to her mouth—

"Do you enjoy being drunk when you fly, Sarah?" Rachel asks condescendingly, walking around the other woman and retrieving her phone from where it rests on the opposite counter.

"What, we're going _tonight?_" Sarah should have expected as much from Rachel, who just continues looking at her Blackberry like Sarah had never spoken.

"And yeah... I do," Sarah adds defiantly—childishly—knocking back the fresh measure of alcohol in her tumbler (well, Rachel's tumbler; it's fancy and it's crystal and, despite her drug of choice, doesn't altogether suit Sarah). She doesn't know whether she enjoys flying intoxicated or not; she's barely ever flown—but of course Rachel already knew that.

"Anyway, what is it to you?"

Unsurprisingly, Rachel does not gratify her with an answer; truthfully only interested in Sarah when she is able to bring Rachel closer to that which she cannot manifest through sheer desire alone.

Sarah waits a moment before speaking again.

"You must like me quite a bit, you know... Running away with me to have _lunch_ in Kensington and all," Sarah muses, the last bit embellished with a gloriously accurate impression of Rachel's accent. It's teasing, flirty, but there's a hint of vulnerability in her eyes and she turns back to face the counter where Rachel cannot see them. But Rachel has already seen.

To Sarah's absolute shock, Rachel slaps her hard on the ass, eliciting a sharp yelp. There's a pleasantly surprised smirk on Sarah's lips as she twists to face Rachel, but it soon dissipates. Rachel's expression is one of danger and dominance, knowing then that not only did Sarah trust her, but had become clumsy with her emotions; she _wanted_ Rachel to like her 'quite a bit', maybe even wanted Rachel to love her.

A cool, smug smile pulls at the corners of Rachel's mouth, "We're not going to Kensington."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: so i accidentally wrote a between pivotal chapters chapter and it might even be the best one so far um? also i accidentally listened to lose yourself by eminem while reading through previous chapters and it fitted bizarrely well so yeah there's that. listen and read. it is enhancing.**

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><p>The way Sarah is flying round the room—opening and closing the trouser press, repeatedly belly flopping on the bed, and spinning around so fast in the cream leather desk chair that Rachel thinks she herself may need to lie down—one would think that Sarah had never set foot in a hotel room before. In fact, more every moment—as she observes the woman just as old as she become equal parts enthralled and offended by each novel amenity in the suite—Rachel suspects it may very well be the case.<p>

Rachel sits in an armchair situated beside the window, phlegmatic. And with one elbow propped up on the arm, jaw resting in her hand, she watches Sarah take a look inside the mini-fridge, immediately turning to her open-mouthed from where she squats beside it. Rachel raises a solitary eyebrow and, despite her best efforts, cannot help the fraction of a smile that comes to her lips, "It is satisfactory, I see?"

"Satisfactory?! Hell fuckin' yeah! Here, catch!" Sarah chucks a miniature vodka Rachel's way and impressively she _does_ catch it, despite the meagre warning.

Rachel scans the label disdainfully, "This is _not_ up to stan—"

"Oh, don't be such a kill joy! Fuck knows you could do with loosening up a bit. I say we get drunk on this shit and christen the bed, yeah?" Sarah meets Rachel's eyes over a bottle of her own, which she is now glugging back unceremoniously.

"Sarah, I refuse to drink this filth."

"'Fraid it's gonna wreck your precious clone organs, or somethin'?" Sarah gibes at her.

Rachel remains impassive; continues to look on unimpressed. Sarah's opinions hold little gravity for her now; she knows full-well that she doesn't need to please Sarah anymore, doesn't need to fight for her approval. Rachel has little understanding of the concept but is, nevertheless, aware that humans—apparently—do not have to _like_ in order to _want;_ like in order to _need;_ like in order to _love,_ even. Sarah already wants her, needs her._Loves her?_

"'Kay, alright, you don't have to drink… whatever it is you think this stuff is—but we can like… still do the other stuff…" Sarah has begun sauntering towards Rachel deliberately, leaning back on her hips, a smirk spreading across her face as she inches closer. Rachel decides on simply letting her continue to humiliate herself, watching as Sarah nears the armchair and sinks to her knees, mischievous eyes locking with Rachel's ostensibly bored ones.

In Rachel's lack of protest, Sarah puts a hand on each of Rachel's legs and lets them travel over smooth tanned skin all the way from her heels to the hem of her skirt, breaching the boundary and slipping under easily. She moves slowly, never having dropped Rachel's graze, every second asking over and over for permission; Rachel knows she'd only have to give the slightest shake of her head and Sarah would withdraw completely. Sarah wants her, needs her. _Loves her? Yes._ Sarah reaches down to slip off her stilettos but Rachel keeps her feet planted on the floor reluctantly.

"What, you can't do normal once in a while?!"

Thinking about it now, Rachel realises that they have, in fact, _never_ 'done normal'; this, actually, is as normal as it's ever gotten. Sarah is still her clone though, still wears her face—and as such, Rachel is still interested.

"Reckon you'd rather I just pounced on you whenever I fancied, to be honest."

"I would."

_She wouldn't._ But it would certainly make things more interesting; make Sarah more interesting, if Rachel is going to continue spending as much time around her as she does.

Visibly frustrated, "Oh, you _would?_ I thought you were the only one who was allowed to do that."

"I thought _you_ didn't do what you were told."

"_Fine._"

"Fine."

"Take off your fucking shoes," Sarah is standing again and Rachel rises gracefully to meet her, holding Sarah's gaze and stepping out of her heels as instructed, bringing the pair perfectly eye to eye.

Sarah tugs at the lapel of Rachel's jacket, "take this pretentious shit off."

Rachel unbuttons the garment with a deliberate lack of haste, draping it over the arm of the chair, bringing her eyes back to Sarah's for her next direction challengingly.

"_And_ the rest…"

Sarah's words are commanding but it doesn't suit her one bit; she doesn't have the strength for it, or the superiority; her eyes aren't steady like Rachel's and they flit uncensored over Rachel's body as she undresses just a few feet in front of her.

It is a test, and Sarah is failing.

Wordlessly, Rachel had obliged, but the moment she is done she pushes Sarah abruptly back onto the bed, leans down, unzips her jeans, and begins to peel them off Sarah's hips.

"Hey!" Sarah stares at Rachel like she had just offered her a slice of cake and then eaten it right in front of her. The truth is, if Rachel had given it to Sarah she would certainly have eaten with her fingers, dropped crumbs all over Rachel's carpet, trodden them in irrevocably, and generally made a mess of things. Rachel can't afford that. But it doesn't mean toying with the idea doesn't excite her; doesn't mean she won't let Sarah believe it is possible if only for a moment.

Rachel stands stock-still over her, eyebrow raised rhetorically, staring Sarah down with a force that is almost palatable. They push each other around physically just for the fun of it, but it is redundant; at this point Rachel can push Sarah any which way she likes with just a look.

Sarah sighs sharply through her nose and her eyes dart off to the left for a second as if to say 'Fuck it' before she grabs Rachel by the only thing she is still wearing—her necklace—and pulls her down on top of her.

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><p>It had been just three-thirty when they had tumbled onto the bed but, now five 'o' clock, the light is beginning to fade and—neither of them having bothered to get up and turn the electric one on—long shadows stretch across the suite as the sun lowers in the sky.<p>

Sarah had drifted off approximately half an hour ago, exhausted from the flight; her heavy drinking therein; and the physical demands from the kind of sex that had been typical of Rachel's appetite. Lying next to her, tracing the Artex patterns on the ceiling with her eyes, Rachel considers the numerous ways in which her plans for tomorrow could go calamitously wrong.

In her sleep Sarah rolls onto her side, her arm coming to rest over Rachel's stomach unintentionally.

Rachel freezes.

Sure, she's let Sarah touch her outside of an erotic context before, but not like _this_; not naked, not vulnerable, not in a bed made for two, not while one of them slept. She tries to extricate herself but her movement causes Sarah to stir, and she burrows closer to Rachel who sighs in frustration, once again her reaction causing her only further disadvantage. The noise draws Sarah a little closer to the surface and she whispers 'Hi...', lifting her head and pressing her face into the warmth of Rachel's shoulder.

Rachel sighs again.

"Hello, Sarah," her voice is grating and she purses her lips against her irritation, "Now, if you don't _mind_, I am going to take a shower."

Rachel plucks Sarah's arm from her abdomen and swings her feet over the edge of the bed, not caring to check if Sarah has heard or not; not caring if Sarah does _indeed_ mind or not.

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><p><strong>AN: so after a revelatory evening on tumblr it turns out people actually care about this story and are enjoying it WHO KNEW so yeah um.. leaving feedback.. will definitely... like... speed the process along. do the thing. tell me what you think (because i have no idea lol**)


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:****slight dubcon warning for this chapter but i mean i wrote it and even i'm not sure if it's a valid warning? just take caution i guess. also this chapter has explicit references to rachel and sarah being both involved and clones. but i guess you wouldn't have read this far if that wasn't ok with you ha**

**special SPECIAL thanks to cloneclubcosima(a03) for beta-ing this EXTENSIVELY. i owe you a soul. my soul.**

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><p><em>Rachel snakes a hand around the back of Sarah's neck and pushes up firmly through dark locks, pulling on a fistful of hair and forcing Sarah's chin up; forcing her to meet her gaze. If Rachel were any closer she would be out of focus. Their eyes lock, noses almost brushing, and Rachel's breath is hot on Sarah's lips when she growls, "Be <em>done_ with it."_

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><p>Air thick with a mist-like rain, the pavement is wet beneath their feet; Rachel's heels somehow still clicking against the darkened stone and attracting the attention of every passerby. Rachel walks like she has been walking these streets all her life. Of course she <em>hasn't<em>, and neither has Sarah, but nobody here knows that—and people all around steal barely restrained glances at the two; perfect copies of one another, yet polar opposites; each with a commanding air in their own separate ways.

Rachel enjoys it immensely but her expression does not betray her. For all intents and purposes, it is the first time they have been out together, side by side, for all the world to see. Rachel feels the adrenaline coursing through her body, feels her desires solidify once more—become realised—in the eyes of these London strangers as they reflect back at her the understanding that these two women are the same. _It is real._ Their faces tell her it is so.

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><p>Sarah comes to a halt outside a pub she had once known and Rachel looks at her in disbelief; the notion of being seen in a place like this is not at all an appealing one. She appears to hold her breath as she looks to the sky, eventually conceding with a sharp huff and the slightest twitch of an eyebrow.<p>

They sit at the bar—perhaps unwisely—and it's not long before they're approached by a man so forward that he earns a heated glare from Sarah and a particularly frigid one from Rachel. Something about them being identical; about who is older. Rachel isn't really listening; waits it out only for the fact that she knows the attention is a necessary catalyst. Sarah's abrasive rudeness paying off for once, he finally leaves the pair alone—but to Rachel's great annoyance, the bartender has also latched onto the conversation, "But really, who's older? Gotta be you, right?" He nods in Rachel's general direction.

"Mate—," all her patience having already expired, Sarah stops him in his tracks, the silence instantly restored. Sarah's cold shoulder is almost as good as Rachel's.

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><p>It's been several moments since they've exchanged words, neither Sarah nor Rachel one to make idle conversation. Sarah is on her third drink and a little tipsy when finally Rachel breaks the silence. She crosses one leg over the other and takes a sip from her glass, not looking at Sarah.<p>

"They think we're twins," Rachel licks her lips slowly and places her drink back down on the counter, taking her time with it all before looking Sarah in the eye, expression unreadable.

Sarah shrugs, "Yeah, and?"

"Does that bother you?"

"What? Why? Why would it _bother_ me?" Sarah says all in one breath.

Rachel raises an eyebrow, her silence coaxing Sarah to fill it herself.

"What _else_ are they s'posed to think? _Clones?_ Come on, Rachel."

"Just because it's a reasonable assumption doesn't mean it doesn't bother you. Statistically, it's a reasonable assumption that you're heterosexual but that isn't true, either."

Sarah doesn't miss a beat, "You tryna say I'm gay?"

"Are you trying to say you're not?"

"Yeah! No...! I mean—not—I don't bloody well know do I! Fucking hell..."

Rachel smirks, amused; turns back to her drink, "Well, it can certainly be said that you aren't my twin," she takes a sip, "...or straight."

"Fuck you," Sarah shoves Rachel by the shoulder, something she had never done before, and probably wouldn't have done without alcohol in her system. Notably, Rachel remains cool; knows that she is winning—anyway, it is better than a gun to the cheek.

"You have," Rachel's voice is even and she looks straight ahead, purposefully omitting the vital part of what she is meaning to express.

"Have what?"

Rachel just stares at her like it's obvious.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Sarah whispers hotly, "Yeah. Yeah! Okay! I _have_ fucked you, but that don't make me gay!"

"Kiss me."

"Sorry?!"

Rachel just says it again as if Sarah simply hadn't heard her.

"Not _here!_ Are you insane?" Sarah makes a face beyond incredulous, almost outraged.

"I see..."

Rachel moves to put her coat on; Sarah buys it.

"Hey, woah, where you off to?"

Rachel fixes her with a stoic look and uncrosses her legs to stand, but before she can, Sarah's lips are on hers: it's rushed and Sarah's heart isn't in it—nor is Rachel's for that matter—but that isn't important; isn't the point.

Sarah pulls back a mere two seconds later, immediately putting both hands around her beer bottle and staring at the label, "Happy now?" she asks sarcastically.

"Yes, thank you."

"Praise the lord."

Rachel ignores her comment.

"It bothers you." It's a statement, neither amused nor hurt, entirely matter of fact.

Sarah sighs, groans, drags her eyes off her drink, "What's the matter with you now?"

"It does—it bothers you—that the general assumption would follow that we're related, more specifically twins."

Sarah knows she would have to be an idiot to try and deny it after her positively explosive reaction to Rachel's request. Sarah isn't looking at her anymore but Rachel knows she has her full attention.

"We share DNA. We did not, however, grow up together, come from the same family, or even have the same parents. We're not related in any socially significant meaning of the word. And, as two females, there is no possibility of reproduction. You know this, they don't—and it bothers you. It invalidates the way you feel about me and our behaviour towards one another."

Rachel has rarely been known to say so much in one go and, perhaps to compensate for this, she had spoken as if reading from an encyclopaedia. Nevertheless, the whole thing aggravates Sarah, and she spits out her stifled words now, angry at Rachel's insistence upon verbalising things that she'd rather not think about at all.

"And _how_ is that? How do I _'feel'_ about you?"

"The same way I feel about you." It's a lie. And Rachel feeds it to Sarah deliberately, knowing it to be the only sentiment that will make her feel as though she isn't being attacked; that if she _is_ guilty, she isn't the only guilty one.

"So it doesn't bother _you?"_ Sarah's voice is a little calmer now, and somewhat childlike behind her forced act of residual annoyance. Rachel can tell that this plays on her mind more than she'd ever willingly admit. Rachel needs Sarah not to care at all. That is why they are here; that is what Rachel's business is in dragging Sarah out of familiar, suppressing, always-watching, Toronto.

"No, it doesn't."

"Yeah, right."

Sarah is quiet for a mere moment.

"Okay... fine," Sarah begins, appearing more passionate than she'd like, clearly needing Rachel to lay out a path before her leading away from the sense of shame she had been harbouring, "So if some bloke had come over here after I kissed you, what would you have told 'em?"

Rachel eyes her with classic mock-sympathy, "Does it matter?"

Sarah abruptly twists back to face the counter, retreating from Rachel, "Ah, fuck it, you don't understand, you're so bloody..." she waves a hand aimlessly, "so bloody _unaware!_ It's like the only person that exists is you, if you want something—then that makes it fine!"

It isn't at all inaccurate, both women just as astute as each other.

Sarah drains the liquid from the bottle in front of her and slides off her barstool, not looking at Rachel, "Whatever. See you back at the hotel."

"Felix is your brother," it is a desperate move from Rachel, but Rachel is just that: desperate. Not for Sarah, _oh no,_ but for what Sarah alone can bring her.

Sarah pauses, impatient, entirely fed up with the whole debacle, _"What?"_

"Felix is your brother purely by environment, but he is a hundred times more your brother than I am your sister. You share no DNA, but you are family. It works both ways, you understand."

To both their surprise Sarah has welled up in the time that Rachel has been talking and is now fiercely wiping away the single tear that rolls down her left cheek.

"I just don't know what to do, okay! It's all so _fucked up_ and so bloody _complex_ and you just act like it's none of that! Like nothing applies to us, like it makes us closer, makes us _better!_ And half the time I can't even tell if it's me you want or just anoth—"

Rachel has heard enough.

_"Compose_ yourself," she interjects sharply, warning Sarah with glittering eyes.

"See! You can't even handle a public argument but you just made me fucking snog you like it was no big deal!—Hey!"

Rachel has grabbed Sarah by the arm and is dragging her towards the exit as inconspicuously as possible. They weave through the throngs of people, Sarah struggling weakly against Rachel's surprisingly firm grasp—wanting to make a point but not really wanting to get away.

Out on the street, Rachel lets her go immediately, walking back the way they had come without so much as glancing at Sarah to make sure she is following; Rachel is certain that Sarah would be were she to look.

She is, and she catches up to Rachel quickly, her rage amplified—if there's one thing Sarah cannot stand it is to be manhandled.

To their left there is a break in the terraced buildings and Sarah sprints the last few paces until she's just a foot behind Rachel, only to roughly shove her off the main road and onto the poorly lit side-street. Rachel stumbles but she does not gasp or shout; she had been expecting as much, hoping for it even. Sarah wastes no time in stepping directly into Rachel's personal space, forcing her to step back until she is pressed up against the old brick wall behind her—hard.

Pursing her lips with anger as much as with the effort of holding back tears, her eyes filling with a kaleidoscope of emotions, Sarah says nothing.

If Rachel were a different sort of woman she might crumble under the intensity of Sarah's gaze; might pull her to her chest and tell her 'it's going to be alright', that they could 'figure it out'. But Rachel's heart has not been so inclined since she was eight years old, and instead she pushes Sarah back by the shoulders; pushes her until she comes up against the opposing wall, mirroring Rachel's own previous position. And kicking Sarah's feet apart with one of her own, Rachel shoves a knee between her legs, avidly watching Sarah's face change as her body responds to the pressure even while her mind wills it not to. Satisfied, Rachel reaches down and makes quick work of undoing Sarah's zipper before gracelessly pushing her hand into her underwear.

Sarah closes her eyes and lets out a short breath; whimpers half in resistance and half in arousal; wants Rachel to carry on just as much as Rachel seems to want to, but is loathe to let her get away with it.

Rachel affords her little time to deliberate, though, asking harshly, 'Does that feel good?' as soon as she begins to sense wetness beneath her fingers.

Sarah just swallows hard and squeezes her eyes shut, tries to focus on keeping her breathing even; Rachel didn't need Sarah to tell her anyway.

"How then do you suppose it can be so _wrong?_ If you like it so much, if you _always_ like it so much?" Rachel's tone is scathing, vicious, mouth close to Sarah's ear—and this time when Sarah doesn't answer, Rachel grabs her roughly by the jaw and kisses her deeply, as if to further prove her point.

The addition of Rachel's tongue is too much for Sarah and she hurtles wildly close. Feeling it in the writhing of Sarah's body, Rachel quickly withdraws herself entirely, leaving Sarah gasping where she stands slumped against the wall, eyes snapping instantly to Rachel's in confusion.

"What the bloody hell, Rach?!"

"What the bloody hell indeed," it is the first time Sarah has heard Rachel use the expression and momentarily she is taken aback. Rachel either doesn't swear at all or goes straight for the truly damnable.

_"What?"_

"Quite."

Rachel's voice is low and it feels like a threat as she sidles back towards Sarah, "You can't expect to get what you want from me before I have gotten what I want from you, Sarah."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Sarah looks around the alley in disbelief, as if seeking validation from an imaginary audience.

Moving in on her, Rachel snakes a hand around the back of Sarah's neck and pushes up firmly through dark locks, pulling on a fistful of hair and forcing Sarah's chin up; forcing her to meet her gaze. If Rachel were any closer she would be out of focus. Their eyes lock, noses almost brushing, and Rachel's breath is hot on Sarah's lips when she growls**, **"Be _done_ with it."

Sarah is still bewildered but knows better than to speak up this time, opting to play Rachel's game instead. She stares down the woman opposite her until the silence itself becomes prompting enough.

"We kiss in _private _and we kiss in _public _or you do not kiss me_ at all,_ are we clear?"

Another of Rachel's odd phrasings—but Sarah is able to pay it little mind as no sooner is Rachel finished speaking than she is pressing her body up against Sarah's; sliding her hand under Sarah's t-shirt; yanking her head to one side by the same fistful of hair and lowering herself to kiss Sarah's neck, all teeth and tongue.

Rachel pauses in her ministrations,_ "Are we clear?"_

Sarah doesn't respond fast enough for Rachel and she bites down hard on Sarah's shoulder, a sharp contrast to the warmth of her lips behind Sarah's ear not five seconds ago.

Sarah clutches at the cool brick behind her, trying to get her balance, before letting out a rough 'Yeah' over Rachel's shoulder and closing her eyes against what she had just submitted to. Rachel answers only in pushing her hand lower from where it had been resting on Sarah's hip and letting Sarah come this time. Heady with success, Rachel doesn't shove Sarah off when she crumbles into her, burying her face in Rachel's neck. _Here in the dark it is easier to imagine Sarah with a different haircut._

Cheek still pressed against her counterpart's skin, "I can't smell your Rachel smell anymore." Sarah's voice jolts both women from their respective reveries, and now Rachel does shove Sarah off her.

_"What?"_ Rachel asks impatiently, beginning to walk back out towards the main road.

"You used to smell like, I dunno, like metal... Sorta? And sometimes toffee. But I can't smell you anymore. We must smell the same," Sarah laughs easily now—mood as fluid as ever—and begins walking after Rachel, "Been spendin' too much time around you, Proclone."

Rachel doesn't reply, doesn't even turn to face her; just keeps on walking, the smile that creeps across her lips kept only for herself.

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><p><strong>AN: in case you were wondering precisely just how long this chapter is... 2546 words. i have been stripped of all coherence. also if there was ever a chapter that i would value feedback on it's this one lol i mean.. the clonecest is strong with this one. also rachel says bloody hell. but shE SAID IT FOR A REASON OK. ok.**


	9. Chapter 9

Pushing Sarah for the first time in an environment that can soon be left behind, Rachel kisses Sarah on the plane back to Toronto.

She flicks through her mental archive, stopping when she finds the knowledge pertaining to how people who care for one another kiss. Deciding herself to be capable, Rachel turns to Sarah, catching her gaze; tilting her head a fraction and giving Sarah a look that prepares her for what she is about to do. Sarah blinks at her sombrely, almost a cat-kiss; thinks that she is ready—if only just.

And then, wearing the mask of a woman monumentally more tender than she, Rachel lifts Sarah's chin with a gentle finger, leans into her slowly, closes her eyes, and presses their lips together. _Classic_.

To a certain extent Rachel's calm exterior remains unbroken, but her heart races when she allows her imagination to compensate for what she cannot see—when she allows herself to be reminded of how they must look to anyone's eyes that should fall upon them—and when she pulls back her breath is shaky, the magnitude of the thrill quickly becoming too much to contain. There are several lipstick smudges around Sarah's mouth and, unbidden, Rachel envisages herself leaving more on Sarah's breasts, Sarah's thighs—right here and now with the entire cabin watching. _Preferably with them watching. _

Instead, Rachel swallows, breathes, glances over the rows of passengers in her desire to absorb every ounce of attention that they might have drawn to themselves.

Rachel has never smoked, nor been a heavy drinker—and now she knows it's because this is it, this is her drug of choice. It is one thing to kiss a woman with her face, but a whole other thing to do it before an audience—and Rachel's mind runs wild with the understanding that, now—the last hurdle overcome—there are a hundred different places she could do this, and a hundred different things she could do there besides give Sarah a sugary kiss.

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><p><strong>AN: *cat-kiss: you know when your cat blinks at you really slowly because they trust you/love you etc, well humans also do it to each other (think about giving someone a sincere look of understanding or love)**


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